hate her."

She stamped her foot, and the angry gleam in her eyes was genuine. There
could be no doubt that she was jealous of the princess. I could not
account for her unique attitude toward herself save on one hypothesis:
she was, even to herself, two distinct persons. Yolanda was a happy
burgher girl; Mary was a wretched princess. The two widely differing
conditions under which she lived were so distinct, and were separated by
a gulf so broad, that to her the princess and the burgher girl were in
no way related.

With change of condition there was always a change of person. The
unhappy princess would come down the stairway in the wall; God would
kindly touch her, and lo! she was transformed into a happy Yolanda.
Yolanda's light feet would climb the dark stone steps, and God was once
more a frowning father. There must also be added Max's share in her
emotions. Perhaps she feared the princess as she would have dreaded a
rival; since she longed with all her passionate, tender heart to win Max
for herself only. It would have been an easy task, as princess, to win
him or any man; but if she could win him as Yolanda, the burgher girl,
the prize would be the greatest that could fall to a woman.

The true situation dawned upon me as I stood before Max and watched
Yolanda. I thought of her adroit plan to make trouble with France, and I
wanted to shout for joy. The impossible might yet happen. God's hand
surely had been in our journeying to Burgundy. Max might yet win this
peerless princess, this priceless girl; or, reverse it if you choose,
Mary of Burgundy might win this peerless man, and might at the same time
attain the unutterable joy of knowing that she had won him for her
own sake.